There is always a tremendous feeling of early-Sunday morning excitement as you fly through the countryside to be among the first to explore the potential treasure. Often the markets are held in a farmer’s field and for one Sunday morning a year, it is utterly transformed. Row upon row of cars are all parked neatly in lines – often in an adjacent field. People tumble out of their voitures, consumed by the urge to be the first to fall upon coveted pieces of antiquity. And yet, tearing through the calm of an early Sunday morning, we are often mystified about how there can possibly be a vide grenier at the end of our country drive, for the winding lanes are quite empty and it seems impossible that the remote roads will lead to fulfilment. Yet indeed they do. We turn a corner and there, at a time when most are still enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning, is a field full of possibility. The air is often cool and damp, yet there is also a palpable air of those like us, caught up in the exhilaration of a treasure hunt.
Wednesday and Saturday mornings are allocated to the fresh produce market in Martel, that originated in the 12th century. The arching roof is a huge, self-supporting wooden construction and the space underneath springs to life on market days. The abundant fruit and vegetables are fresh from the farmers’ fields, literally picked only hours before, still glazed with early-morning dew drops. Once the market is fin in time for déjeuner, the only sense that there were hundreds of people lingering with their baskets over their arms, carefully choosing their produce, is perhaps a stray scrap of cabbage leaf, blowing in the light summer breeze.
Martel is a truly beautiful little town, that every single time we are there, I take pleasure in wandering around and gazing at its medieval past. There are lots of imposing doorways, beautiful arches, half-timber houses, wooden shutters and, of course, the towers. As you wind along the road from Cuzance, its seven towers give it a distinctive silhouette. It’s known locally as the town of the seven towers. While most of the towns in our region began as a religious centre or a military site, Martel sprang up because of its position at a crossroads for the Paris-Toulouse trade and as a route for carrying salt and wine. It is also close to the famous town of Rocamadour and was an important stopping place for pilgrims. The sense of history every single time I am there, seems to seep up through the very cobblestones. On market day, the square comes to life like a film set with all the actors in place, as they have been for hundreds of years. Tradition and ritual are part of everyday life in France.
Meanwhile, we are creating our own history and enduring imprint on Pied de la Croix. Once again, before our return, Jean-Claude’s attention to the details of our other life is touching and extraordinary.
This afternoon I had an appointment with a maçon for a quote for your bathroom window, but he could not make it; so it will be on Friday; to switch on the mains, the button is in the small shed at the back of your bedroom, isn’t it?
Your plantations have almost done nothing, due to the bad weather... and are outgrown by the weeds, except the catalpa which displays a single bud. Françoise is recovering from a bad cold caught in those freezing churches! She was wheezing until now like an old Ford T model! Concerning plantations, there is a surprise from me; but it is not doing better than the rest; so much for mysteries!
Love to you from JCC.
Jean-Claude’s remarkable attention to details means that he is following up something that I had actually forgotten about asking him to look into for me! The maçon for my bathroom window. I cannot even begin to predict the possible cost.
12
French Protocol
After spending several summers in France, we remain conscious of French protocol and alert to the nuances between the two cultures. We are proud of the fact that in our small village, it was us who introduced Gérard and Dominique to Jean-Claude and Françoise. We noted however, with great interest that whenever we were with Gérard and Dominique, and Jean-Claude and Françoise came up in the conversation, they referred to them as Monsieur and Madame Chanel. With our casual Australian manners and easygoing ways, this formality is a revelation to us. However, we have learnt that this formality is deeply entrenched, particularly with older generations. They can in fact, know someone for thirty years and this form of address is still used. So, in Cuzance when we go for a walk round the village with Jean-Claude, we note too that he always greets the older inhabitants, such as Monsieur Dal, in a formal manner. In fact, I have also noticed that he always refers formally to our neighbours as Monsieur Chanteur and Madame Chanteur. When I think about it, I don’t even know our neighbours’ first names; perhaps I never will. Status too remains an important element in French life and it is still often the way, that the higher the person’s status, the more reserved their behaviour is. Again though, it is mainly the older generations, and I’m sure one day, this element too will fade way.
What we have come to love, is the many elements of French protocol, such as when you are entering and leaving a shop. It is customary to always offer a greeting, ‘Bonjour Madame, bonjour Monsieur,’ and on departure, ‘Au revoir, bonne journee,’ – goodbye, have a nice day. I always find joy in the rhythm of these exchanges. If you don’t offer a greeting, the French will simply think you are very rude – the service is usually in direct proportion to your politeness. Everyone appreciates any effort that you are able to make with the language and so, I always try to do my very best. Just like when I lived in Turkey, the very basic words go a long way – merci, merci beaucoup, excusez moi. I have learnt too, that even if they understand English, the French may be wary of speaking it, unless they’re fluent. In all respects, the French do not like to appear less than perfect. It is hard when we return home, not to continue the daily greeting, for after a few months, it is second nature. Likewise, I try not to kiss too many of my colleagues too often on both cheeks, though I must say by now, people seem to have become used to my adopted French ways. I frequently answer the phone at work with a bright, ‘Bonjour’! In France, it is in fact the custom to greet all your colleagues each day with a kiss on each cheek.
Somehow, I don’t think I will attempt to introduce that element into the workplace.
I look around, watch, and try to learn all the time. The French are always quite formal when they leave their homes. Even a trip to the weekly markets means that you would never dream of going out in what you wear at home; certainly there are no thongs or singlet tops in sight. When we stayed with Brigitte and Erick in their chambre d’hôte, I always noted that after they finished cleaning the chambres each morning and had done the daily washing of all the chambre d’hôte sheets, they would both change to venture out to the boulangerie and supermarché. They would always put on something smart. This too is a custom I am conscious of, apart that is, from the humiliating times I have dashed on an urgent mission through the village to Jean-Claude’s in my renovating attire. Being conservative and smartly dressed is just another way of trying to fit into French life. It is something I have come to love, for all who know me, are familiar with my penchant for dressing up whenever possible.
Likewise, relaxing in a café can be altogether different. No matter how frantically busy or overflowing the tables are, there is always just a quiet hum of conversation. The tone is always